


Two shots of happy, one shot of tired af

by thebaddestwitch



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Boys Kissing, Drabble, Fiction, Fluff, M/M, Neuller - Freeform, UEFA Super Cup 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26684800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebaddestwitch/pseuds/thebaddestwitch
Relationships: Thomas Müller/Manuel Neuer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Two shots of happy, one shot of tired af

Thomas and Manu mindlessly browse their phones on their bed back in the hotel, exhausted, but feeling too elated for just calling it a night. Such nights should never end, however, the team has 2 games in the next 6 days, so the celebrations have been pretty low-key: small paper cups of champagne in the ice bath, quick dinner, and despite it's not even midnight yet, here they are. 

"Frank sends his best wishes. And a lot of fire emojis," Manu reports. "Rafinha— less fire emojis. Your mom—"

"All of them are talking to me as well, you know that, right?" Thomas asks, amused.

"Jogi," Manu adds, scrolling further, and he regrets mentioning it immediately, especially when he actually opens the message to see practically the same generic note that he got from the coach for the UCL win. At this point both of them would probably be better off if they were interacting only when strictly necessary - Jogi is clearly pained by having to write him and Manu is pained by having to read what he writes. He doesn't need Jogi's validation. Except that in a very particular way he unfortunately does. They do. If there was anything Manu'd still have asked for this season, professionally, it was for Jogi to see some fucking sense and get Thomas back on the national team. It's not happening. Thomas could walk on water and it still wouldn't happen, which is hard to digest, to say the least. They have only discusssed the topic once, Löw and him. It was a phone call, during which the coach briefed Manu about his decision hours after the news already broke on all outlets and when the only thing holding back Manu from denouncing the captaincy or worse was Thomas' distressed threat to leave him if he did.

"Jogi who?" Thomas replies as his eyes involuntarily move to the MOTM award on his bedside shelf. Manu pokes him with his leg as a way of saying he is sorry and that Jogi can go fuck himself.

Somewhat later Thomas finds a photo of their 2013 selves next to an edit of the same picture, where Basti and Philipp and Arjen and Frank are replaced with Lewy and Serge and Leon and Phonzie. Manu and him are the links connecting the two portraits, them and the trophies. "Look at this, @manuelneuer", he tags Manu in his Instagram story and waits for the reaction.

"We are relics," Manu slowly shakes his head looking at it. "Though I have to say, our hairlines are holding up better than expected. Yours definitely does," he adds zooming in on the details. Thomas crawls into the blonde's lap and straddles him pulling a blanket around them, because the window is open and the night is chilly in Budapest.

"Not relics. Talismans— Mascots— Good luck charms?!" Thomas rambles and kisses Manu, running a hand through aforementioned hairline. For a moment it seems like it's gonna get heated, the way Manu's hips reflexively thrust up, the way he grabs Thomas' nape and pulls him closer in, but then his motion turns into a gentle caress as his thumbs lovingly frame Thomas' face. He bites Thomas' lower lip softly, gives it a playful tug. Eventually they are just resting their foreheads against each other.

"Man of the match, you," Manu says, beaming.

"I'm the man of the man of the match," Thomas smiles back at him. God, the best part of this entire thing is having Manu by his side through it. It has always been the best part, but the past months have been some of the most intense ones ever, with so impossibly much to share. The work on the pitch, the antics of the locker room. Sneaking out of the banquet in Lisbon for drunk, clumsy kisses on an empty rooftop. Massaging aching muscles while watching documentaries on Netflix. Celebratory sex. Sex to manage anxiety with. Being too tired for sex. This: holding Manu's warm, worn out body against his own and getting lost in how his eyes shine. Seeing him at the top of his game, while reaching the same peak.

"I'm so happy," Manu sighs. It's almost weird how much this title means to him, already having won three trophies this season. Almost, because he doesn't have illusions about himself — he always, always wants to have it all. He does appreciate the smaller things, sure, any given Bundesliga win, a good training, a single good dive, even. Having won everything that could be won this season gives him an unusual peace of mind though. A permission to stop and appreciate what they have achieved. It's fleeting, this content, he knows, it will most likely be gone by the time he wakes up. Nevertheless, for a few hours he is: "Just— happy. For you, too, for Javi— For getting to have this, in the darkest of times."

"It's humbling, right? You'd kinda expect the opposite, but it's— humbling," Thomas agrees and lays his head on Manu's shoulder.

They mean winning. They mean football. They mean life. They mean love.


End file.
